


and I was the fire.

by notmadderred



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Minor Character Death, Violence, fratt if you Squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 15:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmadderred/pseuds/notmadderred
Summary: People described meeting Death in many ways. Most spoke of its weight, the way it pulled at one’s shoulders, the way it dragged one down. Matt understood it before, may have said the same thing when the building came crumbling onto him.But now?Now, he felt nothing.He felt nothing, but suddenly, he was everything.





	and I was the fire.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mado](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mado/gifts).



> Inspired by Edna St. Vincent Millay, "A Few Figs" from _Thistles_
> 
> My candle burns at both ends;  
> It will not last the night;  
> But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—  
> It gives a lovely light! 
> 
> Thank you Mado for this brilliant prompt. I hope you enjoy!

Matt knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

The realization settled within him over the course of several seconds, several seconds of thrown punches and stifled cursing and pain, pain, pain.

Death had always been an option for him. He’d been intimate with it before. But now as he stood cornered, batons gone, a horde of attackers upon him, he knew this was different.

People described meeting Death in many ways. Most spoke of its weight, the way it pulled at one’s shoulders, the way it dragged one down. Matt understood it before, may have said the same thing when the building came crumbling onto him.

But now?

Now, he felt nothing.

He felt nothing, but suddenly, he was everything.

Adrenaline always drove his senses into overdrive. His world of fire would take on a sharp clarity, would turn the taste of copper into a line of action, would put heartbeats into precise targets. 

Death put everything in his control. He was everywhere.

_Get up._

The pain didn't distract him -- it was a mode of focus. Another outlet, another tool. 

In moments like these, he often thought of God. Of his father. Of his mother. Of the life he was leaving behind him.

_“I think you’re a half-measure.”_

This moment, he only thought of Death.

It was beautiful. A painting he couldn’t see.

_“I think that you’re a coward.”_

He felt his fist connect with skull, heard his knuckles crack beneath the pressure. Heard something else crack, too.

Matt was an outsider to his own body. It wasn’t bad -- not really.

_“Sometimes I think you just might really be the devil.”_

_"Sometimes I think I might be, too.”_

Matt was fire.

He was pain. 

He was _everything_.

He could hear the screams. They echoed off his ears like distant fireworks, enough to take notice but…

But not enough.

Something in the base of his skull told him something was wrong. He ignored it because this felt right.

Matt was dying, and he loved it.

His body twisted, uncaring of the damage it took, uncaring of the blades that slipped across its skin. As long as it dealt damage, it was winning.

_“Either way, you’re a killer.”_

Someone -- nameless, faceless -- landed a blow into Matt’s gut that made his body impulsively double over.

“Shit,” he said, and it was the first word he really heard since he realized he was dead.

His mind took inventory of his injuries. Seven broken ribs. Broken knuckles. Punctured lung. Bruised spleen. Possible gastrointestinal perforation. Concussion? Bleeding. Deep cuts along his stomach and upper thigh. His suit had prevented some of the blows from hitting too hard, but it wasn’t enough. That didn't matter. He was dying, he was dead. Not much mattered now.

“Do it now!” someone shouted. The sound made his ear pop, so he stopped it.

There was space to his left. He stumbled into it, disregarding where it came from.

Matt was breathless. He was floating. His injuries lifted him higher.

“What the fuck did you do?” someone else yelled. Too loud, too loud. “He’s never kil--”

He stopped that one, too.

Something in him settled. He drank in the feeling like it was blood.

 _Wrong,_ something snapped again.

Nonono. This was _right_.

A startled, bubbly sound escaped him.

He was _fire_. 

He was the world on fire.

He caused the flames, let them lick his attackers in long, deep strokes.

Him. _Him._

_“We don't get to pick the things that fix us, Red. Make us whole. Make us feel purpose."_

Was that so? Because it sure felt like he was picking this.

“Red!”

Matt didn't stop. His lips were split in a smile. Few were the moments in which he felt happy. This seemed appropriate.

“God _dammit_ , Red!”

Gunfire rang out around him.

A sea split at both ends.

Everyone dropped.

Everyone but him.

Matt tilted his head. He should have dropped long ago.

“Long time, no see, Frank,” he quipped. Blood was dripping from his hands. Most wasn’t his own. His left hand was gripping something. He let it drop with a _clang_.

“What the hell, Red,” said Frank, his tone pitched low, voice even. He jumped off a containment chamber, knees buckling slightly at the impact. The man didn't seem to mind, opting to stroll right on over.

Matt smirked. “I’m dead, Frank. Isn’t it nice?”

“How the fuck are you standing?” he asked. His hands went to Matt’s shoulders, steadying him. He hadn’t realized he’d been swaying.

It was funny, wasn’t it? “It’s nice,” he insisted.

Frank’s hands moved up, hovering over Matt’s head. “Shit,” he said. “ _Shit_.”

Matt frowned then. Tried to piece together what Frank could be referencing. There was a pressure in his head, the bleeding he’d noted before. The concussion. Something else, something hazy and deep and wrong.

“You’re afraid,” Matt noted, a tad absently.

“You need a hospital. You should be dead.”

A fit of giggles escaped him. “I already am. Just like them,” he continued, gesturing to the bodies on the floor. “So many of them. I burned, Frank. It was nice. Wasn’t it?” 

There was something desperate in his voice at the end. He tried to ignore it.

“This isn’t you. Fuck-- if you remember this--” Frank cut himself off, shaking his head. “ _Shit_ , Red.” He put a hand on Matt’s shoulder again, using his other one to dig into his pocket. When he pulled it back out, he was holding a phone. “Hey… You know I wouldn’t be callin’ if it wasn’t an emergency… Ain’t me-- it’s Red… Yeah, he’s in real bad shape.”

Matt tuned out the rest, opting to close his eyes behind his mask and let Frank’s touch sink in. The hold was firm but gentle, careful of any injuries. Different from the fists of before. 

“... You sure? Thought it was worse to take out… Yeah, yeah, yeah. I ain’t the expert. If he dies… Fuck, I know. Just… hurry, okay?” With a sigh, he hung up the phone and slipped it back in his pocket. His head flicked up, probably looking into Matt’s eyes. Matt entertained the sentiment, cocking his head so the mask’s eyes met his. “Sorry about this,” Frank said.

Matt wasn’t concerned. He didn't fight as Frank moved, gripping something on the back of Matt’s head. When his hand shifted, so did Matt’s head. He frowned. “Um, what--”

Frank pulled, and Matt’s senses all focused on that, highlighting the knife that Frank was clutching, the knife that had been in his head and

It came out. Matt screamed.

It felt like electricity was crackling in his brain, firing against the edges, warping, exploding. Each second brought something new, fresh burns, fresh pain, pain that Matt hadn’t truly been registering.

He collapsed.

Frank caught his body.

Matt could feel himself spasming, twitching. Hurt whimpers were escaping him now, his mouth gasping and

Oh, God.

No. _No._

“I- I didn't, I--” he sobbed, stretching out his hands. Bile was crawling up his throat. The stench of blood, bodily fluids, was becoming too much, too much.

“Shh, shh, Red. You’re okay. Settle down. You’re gonna be fine.”

He replayed the moments. Could recall exactly when he’d been struck with the knife. Could recall the way his thoughts buzzed and twisted after.

The pain was one thing. The injuries were one thing.

“I- I killed-- I killed them,” he stammered. His heart was racing, breaths growing quicker. “I killed--”

“Deal with that later, Red. Hear me? Calm down.”

Matt tried to pull away, but his limbs were too weak, everything was too weak. The fire he’d been was gone. He was gone.

Oh, God. What had he done?

What had he…

He stopped struggling.

“Red?” Frank sounded concerned. “Stay with me.”

He’d been right about one thing, earlier.

He was dead.

Frank shook him. “Red! Stay with me. You hear me?”

His brain snapped, sizzled. Matt drowned himself in the pain.

\----

The next time Matt awoke, he could hear a heart monitor.

There were three sets of heartbeats in the room, outside of his own.

He pinpointed them: Foggy. Karen. Frank.

“Hey, Matty. You awake?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. Clenched his fists. “Hey, Fogs.”

“We--” Karen was cut off as she shared a look with Foggy. Foggy nodded. She continued, “we heard about what happened.”

And Frank knew his identity.

Was that important, in the grand scheme of things? 

Matt didn't respond.

“Are you… are you okay?”

The question hurt more than any injury he’d ever gotten. “Am I okay,” he parroted flatly. “Karen, I--” He stopped himself, clenching his jaw as his voice wavered there. He didn't sense any cameras, didn't sense anyone listening outside the door. He wasn’t entirely sure it would have changed his words, anyway. “I killed people.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. That was… he’d never….

He felt himself start to panic.

The heart monitor started racing, bleating out in warning. 

“Red, listen to me. You don’t wanna make your injuries any--”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, his voice going low, barely audible. “I- it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t…” Tears were streaking down his face, dropping from his exposed eyes. 

His mind flashed back, connecting him to the stench of blood and death.

“It wasn’t you,” Frank said carefully. Foggy was growing more worried, standing from his chair and whipping his head around anxiously. “You didn't do that.”

“I did,” he said, his voice cracking. “That was _me_.” He shook his head slightly, ignoring the way it made his brain scramble. “I _liked_ it.”

A quiet, “Shit,” escaped Karen.

“That wasn’t you,” Frank repeated. His heart kept saying ‘truth.’ Frank believed it. Matt didn't.

Someone new bustled into the room. “Excuse me,” she said, immediately going to Matt’s vitals and examining the system. “Hello, Mr. Murdock. I’m glad to see you’re awake. I understand that you’re disoriented. Do you remember what happened?”

His mouth felt dry. “I…”

She gave him a moment. Then, “Memory loss is not uncommon for someone in your state. It appears that you were mugged. Luckily, a couple of bystanders stepped in, and one happened to be a very good medic. Do you remember any of that?”

He bit his lip. Shook his head. 

The woman hummed and clicked some buttons, maneuvering her mouse with practiced familiarity. “That’s okay, Mr. Murdock. One of the men is talking to police and giving them a description of your attackers. Do you know any reason…” She stopped herself short, apparently realizing that she was stepping beyond the acceptable line of questioning for nurses. “Is something wrong, Mr. Murdock? You seem upset.”

He felt the heat spread to his face. Matt hated vulnerability. He hated hospitals. He hated that he would need to talk to police after this, pretend he’d been mugged most likely by enemies he’d made as a lawyer, pretend he didn't remember--

He could tell the truth.

“Your attackers haven’t been captured yet, but police are confident they will be soon.”

So Frank and… and whoever else had pretended it had been someone else who attacked him. Not the mob. Not the people he’d murdered.

He wanted to say something. He opened his mouth. No words came out.

The woman became sympathetic. “Would you like to speak to someone? A therapist? Or--”

“No,” he said, the word rushed. His mind painted bodies on fire, blood spilling from wounds he’d caused. Skulls he’d cracked. Slashes he’d made. “No.”

She hesitated. “Okay. The extent of your injuries was very serious. You may be here for a while.” He could hear the words beneath. _Lucky to be alive_. He wasn’t lucky. He should be dead.

He wanted to talk to Father Lantom. Father Lantom was dead.

“I understand,” he stated, staring forward.

She wanted to say something else.

Instead, she nodded. “I’ll give you some time.”

With that, she walked back out.

Frank released a breath. He must’ve been worried she may recognize him. Why had he bothered to stay?

“I’m going to tell the police what really happened,” he said.

“What? You can’t be serious--” Karen said as Frank just shook his head and mumbled, “That ain’t gonna happen, Red.”

He scowled. “I’m a murderer. I killed people. A part of… a part of me wanted it. I can’t help people if I can’t trust myself to-- to not…” He trailed off with a shake of his head. “I have to.”

“So should I turn myself in for killing Wesley? Should Frank go back to prison for being the Punisher? That’s what you want?”

“That isn’t what I said, Karen.” There was a pit in his stomach, something anxious and hollow. He could feel the tendrils spilling out, clawing up his chest. “This is about me.”

“Matt, I…” Foggy swallowed. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. You- you had a knife in your head! That was bound to stop you from thinking clearly.”

“And who’s to say the damage isn’t permanent,” he snapped back.

“The fact that you feel awful for killing them, Matt! It’s written all over your face! You didn't want to do it. Sure, it happened. Sure, the… the _you_ in that moment liked it, but you’re _you_ you now. And as much as I hate it, Hell’s Kitchen still needs their Daredevil.”

He pulled his lips into a thin line. “So I’m just supposed to live with this? Knowing that I-- that I--”

“You didn't do anything, Murdock,” Frank stated firmly, leaning forward in his plastic chair and pulling his ball cap back slightly. 

He didn't know what to do. He’d often been lost, listless, hurting. He’d tried to get himself killed. But this… “Why are you even being sympathetic?” he said, looking in Frank’s direction. “You wanted me to kill people before.”

Frank clenched his jaw, shifting his head as he thought on his response. After a moment, he simply said, “That just ain’t you, Red.”

Matt closed his eyes. “But I… I-- I don’t think I can do this. Live with this.”

Karen’s breath hitched.

“We’ll be here for you,” said Foggy. After a second’s hesitation, he rested a hand on Matt’s forearm, avoiding any cuts. “Plus, you can talk to Father Byles. I know it’s not the same as Lantom, but it’s someone else who can… who can help.”

Matt took in a deep breath, ignoring the way it hurt. He still smelled blood, still starkly remembered the death he’d caused.

He… he’d need to find out who they were. Perhaps go to their funerals. Make an effort.

The tendrils drew in their claws.

He breathed out. “Okay,” he said softly. “But I just… I need time.” He didn't even know what happened to his brain, if the damage was permanent. There had to be something, given that the nurse opted out of mentioning that particular injury herself. Perhaps the doctor would tell him. 

Maybe Matt would be broken beyond repair. Part of him wanted that excuse, but he couldn’t sense the extent of the damage himself. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“And you’ll get time,” said Foggy. His grip tightened for a moment before he pulled away. “You’re lucky Frank and Curtis were there for you. Mostly Frank.”

Frank looked away.

Matt still felt like he was unraveling, piece by piece. He’d killed people. He’d thought about it before but never…

Something in him was missing. He didn't think he’d be finding it again.

“Yes," he said. "Lucky.”

**Author's Note:**

> oops matty did a bad


End file.
